The troubadour found himself in the midst of tombs and holy places where the soulless and dead were to rest. Deep in empty thought, where the souls of dead spoke in the flutter of the wind, a being clothed in scarlet robes with flaked dry and scaled skin dropped to his feet. “Take. . . take this scroll, read it well, the reaper, the man of sorrows comes.” Shaking his head and rubbing his eyes from what seemed to be a bad dream, the robes lay in a pile in a pool of violet fluid in which swam maggots, worms, and rot. Not sure if this language or writing was in this world or another, the troubadour sat down at the unmarked grave, and reports this- the tale of another.
We have been around since the dawn of mankind. The grand illusion of warm living flesh, sincere ‘human’ emotion, and blood that conceals the dry ashen skin, which would make a reptilian of our Illuminati full of envy. Greed, power, wealth . . . words that have been corrupted from the purpose our plan. We have played a role in which these words of been spoken, a double speak as it were to the intentions we harbor, and those who have been faithful to the Dagan, Satan, Lucifer, whatever title given only find themselves a parcel in the grand plan of the cause of the Neme.
Freedom. . . the sounds of the word roll so sweet of the tongue. Outsiders and the vile knights of the Athene believe it. From the time Cain slew Able with the rock, when the natives took beads for land, and the seed of David’s loins took the mark on the way to the stations, we’ve been there. It’s not the word that offends our order; it’s the arrogance that people can freely dictate their lives that abhor us. People have taken the role of relationship and traded it for worship, for control. It’s that blind obedience, that need for purpose, direction, and power only the Neme offers. What is viewed as slavery is the open door to the dark void of service. Riches are superficial in terms of the material. Banks, celebrities, athletes, those in position of power and coin all mere puppets and extensions of the reach our dark order has accumulated over the annals of mankind’s first steps on this planet.
Our greatest deception was our order’s belief that the material and lust of the mind of man was the key to total control and domination. Some would sale their soul for gold, others for the man or woman they lust to hold. Others for the mansion on the hill and yet some for a fine car or a mouth full of diamond and platinum grills.
Yet there are some whose souls or service we cannot buy. Those souls who can’t be bought or bartered or sold, we have to sacrifice. Question our story will you? Gandhi, King, Kennedy, Hicks, Marley, and Lennon are a few of these Athene’s we’ve put under thumb. So great is our power and control, the Neme takes these beings of light into the neither. You, the reader of this tale will learn our reach is never far. The Athene’s, those whose minds are open by the touch of the light so bright, the void can find no place. Yet a greater treasure of wealth we seek in the social justice age we have conspired . . . the innocence and obedience of children.
Children. . . the essence of an open mind, ripe with trust and belief that no one would ever do them harm. The rare diamond purity of their souls feed the great Neme. After centuries, we finally see cracks in the barrier wall that the Athene had bartered with the One’s that we couldn’t directly touch or harm. There is no greater power and protection on earth to be found, than in the infinite circle of the family. No greater joy has the great Neme than the crumbling wall of the family. For years, years we managed to raise an army within the hallowed halls of the system you call justice. There is no justice in the world of the Neme, only power, only control, and only total domination. Judges, lawyers, advocates who will bend right into might, corrupt greed into equality, each and all you can be sure bare the mark of the Neme. Governments, nations, religion in which no thought is allowed, no thinking permitted. My worship, my adoration, my freedom from everything the Athene stands for, comes only at the service and satisfaction of the Neme.
I’m but the one acolyte of the Neme, and damning myself penning these words. No dominant force, even ours, is immune from a rebellion, a voice that will not be silenced, even at the cost of a sacrificial death sentencing them to the neither. Yet, as I pen these words of warning and prophecy, one amongst the Athene, the knight of fury, the one who has neither home in the eternal light of the One or bound in the neither of the Neme has risen amongst us. The one truth the Neme never considered, never taught or gave answer to, was when the accumulation of too much was enough, when certain treasures of the human heart couldn’t be touched or taken. This knight of fury, the reaper, the harbinger of the Athene. . . the look in his eyes. Something I remember to this day, as we robbed and pillaged his treasures from him. I warned the Neme, no. . . I pleaded with the Neme to leave this one whose eyes burned like liquid fire with fury, “Spare this one, leave this one be my great Neme.” The hunger of the Neme spares no one. On the table, by the tablets of sacrifice, myself and our Nemeian priest laid him out as an example. None spoke out for him, and the treasured stood in their youthful innocence silent. The thick taste of hope, fear of his demise, and belief that his life would be spared after enduring such delights at the hands of the priest and acolytes of the Neme condemned these treasures to who the realization of who held true power, a mistake that seeks to be rectified now, beating at my door. No beating, no torture, no broken bones, or violations by his own kind would bend him to the submission of freely giving away these three treasures that Neme required.
The fury that burned merged with his tears, not at the beatings, not at his public violation, nor in the mess of blood, bile, dirt, spittle or broken bones that we gave to him as an honored offering to the Neme. These treasures, these three beings, which alone, was the sole purpose, the essence that kept the furion in his spirit retaining to life. Not the splitting of his skin, or the cracking of bones in his chest and ribs would part this spirit from his shell. Tears. . . such a waste of emotion and suffering weren’t of grief or pain, but of anger and drive of the torment these treasures were forced to see this man endure. I remember even as I held the beating heart of this man of sorrows in my hand, it never slowed or faulted as ripped it from his open chest.
Most beings would have given up the ghost from the loss of blood and essence from every pore and orifice in their mortal shell. Many a mind had been broken begging for the Neme or the neither. While we took a being from the roll book of life; I horridly pen this testament in the knowledge that the Neme birthed a man who the One wouldn’t welcome and the neither wouldn’t absorb. This reaper, this man of sorrows now stands outside the door. Leaving acolyte and Nemeian alike, slaughtered and massacred by the thousands. The vengeance of the reaper, this man of sorrows we damned . . . warn those in the Neme my dear reader, the embodiment of the harbinger awaits our dark order. The pounding at my door, or is it the pounding of my heart. No blind obedience or promise of the Neme removes even the subtle fear I once knew before I sacrificed all for the power of the Neme.
